Two Years Without Him
by MrsHeftyTurtle
Summary: John had fallen from the St. Bart's Hospital roof to his death, leaving Sherlock all alone in the world. This is the point of view of Sherlock and how he handles living without John, his blogger. [Johnlock]
1. Chapter 1: Without John

**AN: This is just a new little story I started for a friend of mine. Enjoy.**

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**_Chapter 1: Without John_ **

It's like you're screaming and no one can hear you. You almost feel ashamed that someone could be that important, that without them you feel nothing. No one will ever understand how much it hurts. You feel hopeless, like nothing can save you. When it's over and it's gone, you almost wish you could have all that bad stuff back so that you could have the good.

Sherlock had been on his way to St. Bart's hospital when he had gotten the call from John. John told him to stay where he was and look up. Once Sherlock did, he saw him. He saw John at the edge of the building getting ready to fall. Sherlock begged, feeling his heart sink into his stomach, he begged John not to do it. He begged him to get off the ledge and go to Molly's office, but John didn't listen. John hung up and fell to his death.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, he stood frozen in place while watching John's body fall. After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock had found the strength to run to John's body. People had surrounded him, nurses and doctor's feeling his pulse. Sherlock pushed through everyone, telling them to move. He just wanted to hold John's body to bring him back to life. Sherlock had been able to push through the crowd and get past the nurse to feel John's pulse, there was nothing. Three people were pulling Sherlock away from John's body while others were lifting John's body onto a gurney. They took John away from him.

The day everything happened, Sherlock didn't really know what to do with his life. He went back to 221B Baker Street and went right to their living room. He sat in his chair and stared at the spot where John would always sit. He didn't move or yell to Mrs. Hudson. He never got up. He just sat there, staring.

Mrs. Hudson must have heard the news and came rushing upstairs, pushing the door open and hugging Sherlock tightly. He still didn't move. She was crying and apologizing, saying she was so sorry he was dead. Sherlock ignored her. He acted like she wasn't there. After some time, she must have realized he didn't want her attention and she went back downstairs.

Now, today was John's funeral. Two days ago he had taken his life. Sherlock had tried every possible theory and deduction in the past two days to prove that John wasn't really dead. He couldn't be. It just was not possible. John had promised Sherlock that he would never, under any circumstances, harm Sherlock in any way. That's what he did though. Greatly.

Sherlock had dressed in a black button-up and in his usual blazer. He was standing in front of his mirror, staring at himself. He hadn't slept since John died. He had horrible bags under his eyes, his skin was paler than usual, he looked horrid. He heard Mrs. Hudson call for him to go downstairs, so he did. He grabbed his coat and scarf while walking out the door, closing it, and he walked down the stairs. He stopped mid-step, almost falling, as memories of him and John flooded into his mind. Their first time at the apartment, the first case they did, the last case, everything. Sherlock caught himself on the railing and stood there. He took in a deep breath to calm himself down and continued down the stairs. He met Mrs. Hudson outside the apartment complex, she was calling for a cab. She looked back at Sherlock and gave him a warm smile, he didn't return the smile. He just stood there, waiting for a cab to pull up. Once a cab finally decided to stop at the curb, Mrs. Hudson opened the door for Sherlock and he got in. She followed behind and told the cabbie the address of the funeral home. The cabbie pulled out from the curb and headed on it's way to the funeral home. Sherlock was staring out the window, watching walkers on the sidewalk go by and cars pass in the opposite direction.

They arrived at the funeral home and Sherlock had noticed a few other familiar cars in the parking lot, such as Molly's and Lestrade's. He didn't know who the other cars belonged to though. He got out of the cab and heard Mrs. Hudson paying the cabbie, Sherlock walked into the funeral home without her. Being greeted by a worker, who led him to the room where the actual funeral was being held. Sherlock stopped before walking into the room, at the far end he saw the casket laying on a table; it was closed. Sherlock could not bring himself to walk into the room, so he stood outside of the room for quite some time.

Lestrade walked out of the room and noticed Sherlock leaning on the wall with his eyes closed. He walked over to him slowly.

"Sherlock..? Are you alright? Why haven't you come in yet?" Lestrade asked, hesitant and upset. Sherlock didn't say anything, he opened his eyes and looked at Lestrade in confusion. He looked down at the floor then, with a quick motion, walked through the door into the room. He tried looking every where but the casket. It was impossible. Sherlock was unable to direct his eyes off of it. He took a deep breath and sat down in one of the chairs away from the front row. He placed his hands together on his lap. The room was very silent and had an eerie feeling to it. Sherlock heard the faint sound of mail business shoes tapping the floor, Mycroft had arrived. Mycroft walked over and sat down beside Sherlock.

"Hello, brother dear. I had an important meeting I had to cancel for this occasion." Mycroft spoke in an irritated tone, as if the meeting was oh-so important. "Are you going to play the quiet game, I see?" Mycroft asked in a teasing tone, he also seemed frustrated with his brother for being so childish. "I don't understand why you are so upset. It's like the others, Sherlock, people die. It's only natural, is it not?" Sherlock still refused to speak to Mycroft, even if he was going to be a complete narcissist about the situation they were in. "I hope you get over this little fit soon, brother dear, I have something for you to solve and I believe you would enjoy it at up-most respect." Mycroft got up from the chair and walked out. Sherlock turned his head slightly, glaring at Mycroft as he exited the room.

Sherlock could hear the faint cries of Molly Hooper in the back of the room, she was trying to hold in her tears but she was having a big issue with it. She ended up hiccupping and making small, and weird, noises as she tried to hold it all in. Sherlock looked back at her, watching her wipe her nose in a tissue and dab her eyes with a different tissue. He looked away, he didn't want to watch someone cry over John.

After the funeral was the burial, where everyone had to find a ride to the cemetery and watch John's casket get buried. Sherlock wanted to skip out on this, but Mrs. Hudson wanted to go. She had informed him that it gave her the acceptance she needed. So, as they stood around the spot where John was to be placed, with a crane that was going to slowly place the casket in the whole, Sherlock noticed how there were more people than expected here. He didn't know where they all came from or how John knew them all, but there was quite a crowd around him. Probably coworkers of John's and possibly, but unlikely, some form of family members.

As the priest said a few words, the casket was lowered into the hole. It seemed to happen very fast, because the next thing Sherlock remembered was Mrs. Hudson telling him to come back home at a reasonable time. No one else was standing around him and the dirt had been put back in the hole to cover the casket.

Sherlock walked just a bit closer to the grave stone and pulled a note out of his pocket. Attached to the note was a string and tied to the string was an engagement ring. The one Sherlock was going to use to ask John to marry him, before all of this had happened. Sherlock took the note and opened it, carefully, trying to keep the string attached. He didn't read the note to himself, he knew what it said. He had written it over and over, hundreds of times. He kissed the note and closed it, then carefully placed it on the gravestone, in a place where it would never disappear. Sherlock stood up, putting his hands in his pockets, he stared at the gravestone.

"I'll miss you, John Hamish Watson. I'll miss you very much. You were great to me. The greatest, anyone has ever been to me. I swear on that. There were times where I thought I was so lonely.. Then you.. Then you showed up. You made me.. You made me think differently about people and you made me feel like I could have these.. These emotions for someone. That someone was you, you know. I never got the true chance to tell you how you meant to me, John, I never did. I wish I would have asked you sooner. I really do. Maybe it would have changed this.. Changed this outcome. I.. I love you, John. And I don't want to ever believe that you are truly dead."


	2. Chapter 2: The First Few Days

**AN: Apologies for such a short chapter but here you go. I'm basing Sherlock's emotions and actions off of my own personal experiences, so I hope you enjoy.**

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_**Chapter 2: The first few days**_

The first few days after the funeral and burial were the worst. Sherlock went on a rage one night, kicking and punching everything in sight. He had knocked over John's chair and had thrown it down the stairs, never wanting to see it again. When Sherlock had thrown the chair down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson came knocking up the steps yelling at him. He ignored her, he was still angry.

"Oh shut up! You can throw the chair out!" Yelling back at her, he didn't care what she had to say.

"Sherlock Holmes! I understand you're in pain and I know you miss him dearly, but this attitude is unnecessary and childish, even for you!" Mrs. Hudson attempted to get the chair from the stairway, but couldn't manage. She let out a painful groan and gave up, returning to her rooms. Sherlock plopped in his chair, staring at the kitchen. He kept imagining John sitting in his chair across from him, reading the daily paper and drinking his morning tea. Sherlock groaned, no, he's not real. He's not really there. John's dead. He's never coming back. Sherlock put his hands on his face and yelled to himself. Removing his hands, he noticed that the apparition of John and his chair had disappeared.

Sherlock got up and dusted himself off. His anger subsided and he calmly walked over to his violin, picking up the bow first and brushing his fingers across the horse hairs. He picked up his violin, thus flooding memories of nights where he and John would stay up together for hours in the night; Sherlock would play a song for John and John would sit on the couch, smiling.

Sherlock glanced at the couch, there was no hallucination or apparition of John. Sherlock used the bow of the violin to slightly move the blinds to reveal the rare, sunny London morning. Sherlock stood, towering over the window and placed the violin under his chin. Just before he was going to play something, he heard John's voice in his head. "_What are you going to play for me tonight, Sherlock? I'm in the mood for something calm._" Sherlock put the violin down.

Through gritted teeth, he said to himself, "Get out. Get out of my head." Sherlock closed the blinds and put the violin into its case. He sat down on he couch and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head on his knees. He closed his eyes and sighed calmly, slowly entering his mind palace..

_"John? John where are you? I miss you.." Sherlock was wandering around the flat, bored. He couldn't find John anywhere, well, he actually didn't even bother to check any place, but the kitchen. It was too much work. "Joohn? Are you in our room?" Sherlock heard shuffling from their bedroom earlier, giving him suspicion that's that was where John is. Sherlock decided to get up and walk over to the bedroom door, putting his hand on the door knob and turning slightly. When he entered the room, he saw John laying on their bed with a pool of blood under him._

Sherlock took in a deep breath and snapped himself out of his mind palace, he wasn't safe from the haunting memories there either. What was he to do? He couldn't live with this.. Maybe he'd call Lestrade and spend time with him. He took the thought from his mind, Lestrade was boring and stupid, Sherlock didn't need to be near that. He needed something.. He needed his nicotine, yes, that'd help calm his nerves. There were no murders, it's the only thing he had. So, he began to search for them, he was unable to remember where he had placed his secret stash, yelling for Mrs. Hudson, who refused to respond. He plopped down on his chair and let out a frustrated sigh, where could they be? He knew he had placed them somewhere..

Sherlock jumped up from his chair and walked fast to the kitchen, opening the fridge door, inside he found the packet of cigarettes packed neatly behind severed fingers. He remembered that that was where John had placed them the first time. Sherlock removed the pack from the fridge, closing the door with his left elbow. He unsealed the pack and pulled out a single cigarette, it was cold to the touch from sitting in the fridge for so long. He put the cigarette under his nose and inhaled deeply, smelling all of the toxins and chemicals in one sniff. He smiled to himself, then searched for a lighter. After finding one under the couch, he sat down and lit the cigarette. He took a deep inhale of the smoke, sitting back, he watched the smoke roll out of his mouth.

"_Those are bad for your health._" There was John's voice again. Sherlock let out a groan. "Get out of my mind, I don't care what you have to say." That wasn't true, Sherlock cared deeply for everything John ever said to him. "_Breathing is important, you know._" Sherlock groaned again and inhaled the cigarette, blowing out the smoke to show John that he didn't care about breathing; it was boring.

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Sherlock woke up, sitting up on the couch with the cigarette in his mouth still. He took it out and looked down, the ashes had fallen onto his lap, burning little holes in his newer pants. He got up and brushed the ashs onto the ground and walked to the kitchen, walking around the spot where John's chair should be, and threw the cigarette out. He noticed a cup of tea sitting on the counter and picked it up, underneath was a note from Mrs. Hudson.

_Re-filled the fridge for you deary, John's chair was moved into his old bedroom. Made you some sweets and your favorite kind of tea. _

_Enjoy,_

_Mrs. Hudson_

Sherlock crumpled the note and tossed it at the trash can, the note bounced off the trash can and fell to the floor. Sherlock ignored it and sipped the tea, sweeter than normal, he cringed at the first sip and almost decided to spit it out. He placed the cup back on the counter and walked over to the fridge to see what Mrs. Hudson had put in there. Nothing good. He closed the fridge door and walked over the the table in the living room, taking his phone off the charger.

"Would you like to go out to eat?" Sherlock asked outloud, turning to where John's chair would be, assuming he was there. "Oh." He acted as if he never said anything and picked up the morning paper that Mrs. Hudson always placed on the coffee table. Flipping through it, he was unable to find any good cases. "Nothing good today, John." He looked up from the paper to where John's chair would be and sighed to himself. He closed the paper and slammed it on the coffee table. He put his head down and ruffled his hair, letting out a frustrated yell.

He got up and grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on smoothly, he walked down the stairs and out the door into the crisp London morning air. He pulled his coat closer to his chest and put his hands in his coat pockets. Sherlock decided to go for a walk in the park, to clear his mind, to get all the thoughts of John from his mind. It was impossible, this man that he had spent so many years with and so many memories, would forever clog his mind.

Sherlock loved John, he still does love him. Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out, hoping it was something intesting. Sadly, it was just a text from his brother.

_Care to join me for breakfast? I have a very important matter to inform you of and I know you'll enjoy it._

_Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock thought about the text for a bit and shrugged to himself, he didn't have anything else to do, might as well. He looked at the street, as if on cue, a black car pulled up with tinted windows and the door opened. Sherlock got into the car and pulled the door closed, listening to the constant tapping of Anthea's fingers on her mobile device.


	3. Chapter 3: Breakfast With Mycroft

**Breakfast With Mycroft**

Sherlock sat down across from his older brother, who was sitting back in his chair reading the paper. Sherlock looked at his brother and did a few deductions, noticing a small stain on the tip of his tie, _coffee._ Mycroft had finished a morning workout before leaving to come here, sweat stains remained on his forehead. He was bored, uninterested with the paper. Mycroft glanced up at his brother, noticing that he was being deduced and placed the paper at the side of the table.

He moved closer to the table, placing his elbows on the outside of the menu and his hands under his chin and smiled at Sherlock.

"Smile, brother dear. It's a new day."

"New day?" Sherlock huffed. "Do you understand what I'm dealing with Mycroft? Does it matter to you?"

"Yes, I understand and I do care Sherlock, but I have never in my life expected you to care so much for someone that when they die, this is how you react. Mrs. Hudson has told me about your anger. What is this? It's been one week, Sherlock. I don't see you heading down a good path. Start forgetting. Move on. People die."

Sherlock sat back in anger. Wanting to throw punches at his older brother, but he didn't, he couldn't. Mycroft was right, Sherlock needed to move on and forget about John. He didn't exactly know how to forget about John. He had done so much with him, he had done everything with John. The anger didn't subside, but Sherlock decided to push it out of the way. He could release that later and alone. Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and picked up the menu impatiently.

"Anything of interest, brother dear?" Mycroft asked, sending a questioning glance his way.

"Hmm.. No." Sherlock placed the menu back onto the table and placed his hands under his chin. Closing his eyes, he drifted into his mind palace once more.

John. Every where. At every corner of his mind _there he was. _Yelling for him, calling out his name, whispering for him to come back home, to calm down, _to kiss him_. Sherlock tried so hard to shake him out, to wash him away, but he stopped himself. He was starting to remember a picnic they had, one of their first times together. They went to the nearest park and John had packed a splendid meal for them to enjoy. John was the only person who could make Sherlock laugh, _really _laugh. John would make such boring and simple jokes, but how he said those boring and simple jokes made Sherlock smile and let out his deep, roaring laugh. That was the day Sherlock opened up, sort of, to John. He told him a few family stories and a few things of his childhood, although never bringing up Redbeard. Sherlock would never tell anyone of Redbeard, only Mycroft and his parents knew about him. John seemed so content and happy that Sherlock was opening his life up to someone. That was the day they first kissed, it was an accident. John went to grab his water and slipped, falling onto Sherlock and crashing his lips against the other's. Sherlock didn't push him back, he didn't stop him, _he held onto him. _He let John kiss him and hold him back and pull him closer. He let John run his fingers through his curls and he never wanted to let go. He could still feel the warmth of John's lips on his and the tingly feeling he got every time John had touched him.

"Sherlock? Answer me, Sherlock." Mycroft sounded angry. Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace and glanced at Mycroft who had a very agitated face.

"What?"

"Did you hear anything I said?" Mycroft said, impatient.

"No."

Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I said that you should order something to eat and we can be on our way, do you understand? You must eat, you know. It's unhealthy not to."

"I can last a few days."

Mycroft looked at him, concerned and pissed off. He wasn't going to have any of this _"I'll be okay" _stuff with Sherlock. After finally agreeing to eat something, they were in a black car on the way back to Baker Street.

"Are you sure you'll be alright staying here, Sherlock?"

"Yes. I'll be fine." _Liar, _Sherlock heard John's voice in his head, _you're not okay. Tell him the truth. _"Shut. Up." Sherlock muttered to himself.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. I said nothing." The car stopped and one of Mycroft's workers opened the door for Sherlock, allowing him to step out.

"I want to speak with you again, you know."

"We'll see." Sherlock said as he walked towards the familiar black door with 221B in gold plated numbers/letter on it. He unlocked it and walked up the stairs cautiously to his apartment. Once he entered, he placed his coat in the usual spot and sat back down in his chair. He didn't look at where John would be, he stared at the ground.

_Look at me, Sherlock. _There was his voice again. _Please, Sherlock I miss you. _

"Stop it, you're not real. Shut up. You're dead. You're not there, stop!"

_How could you say that about me Sherlock? I'm alive. I'm here._

"I said shut up!" Sherlock slammed his fist on the table and heard a slight crack in the glass. He groaned and pushed himself out of his chair, walking to the kitchen. He glanced down the hallway, looking at their bedroom door. He really should take a nap.. but the couch seemed like a better option lately.


	4. Chapter 4: Attempting To Sleep

**AN: Sorry for a short chapter, I'll have more this week. **

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**Chapter 4**

**Attempting To Sleep**

Sherlock had been able to sleep a few hours after John's death. That seemed easy, running away from his emotions and hiding. That's mostly where sleep took him sometimes, although he would dream of John, it still helped. That's not how it was going to work now, though. Every time Sherlock closed his eyes he saw John, somewhere in his mind, he saw him. Most of the time, he saw John falling, those weren't the most pleasant times. Sleep started to become a thing of the past for Sherlock. He was used to not sleeping for days on end because of working on a case, but this was different. When he worked on a case he actually had something to do, something to entertain him and he also had John. Now he has none of that.

Sherlock was laying on the couch curled up in a ball, facing the fire place. He kept forcing his drooping eyes open, trying to look around the room and find something to focus on, but there was nothing. He decided to give in to sleep, closing his eyes, and slowing his breathing. He started to drift off into a deep, calming sleep for once. There was no image of John, no memories of him. Then it was like a flood overfilling his mind, everything came rushing in like a train. He dreamed of John standing at the top of St. Bart's hospital, talking to him on the phone. He remembered everything John had said to him. He remembered him saying goodbye and throwing the phone, falling forward.

Sherlock jolted awake, gasping for air as tears streamed down his face.

"Oh John. Why did this have to happen?" Sherlock whined, crying into the pillow. He clutched tightly onto the silky blanket wrapped around him. "Why did you have to go?" He muffled through the pillow, coughing from crying. He sat up and ruffled his hair, wiping his face with the blanket and throwing it off of him. He sat there for sometime, head in his hands, crying.

After that, Sherlock tried to fall back asleep, but it didn't exactly work out too well. He continued to wake up crying or screaming John's name, he just decided to drink coffee and walk around the flat. He checked his phone and saw that it was 4am. Sherlock decided that he was going to go for a walk, clear his mind. He looked down at himself, _I should probably clean up a bit, _he thought to himself. Sherlock walked down the hall to the bathroom, undressing and finding old clothes to put on. He refused to go into their bedroom. He looked in the mirror before leaving and saw John standing behind him, looking at him with such caring eyes.

_"__I know you're not okay, Sherlock." _The apparition of John said. Sherlock turned around, there was no John. He looked back at the mirror and John had disappeared. He turned the water on and threw water in his face to refresh himself. He shut the water off and walked to the door. Checking to make sure he had everything, he put his coat and scarf on and walked down the stairs and out the door.

Sherlock started walking left, he wasn't sure where he was going to go but he was going to go somewhere other than stay in that dreadful flat. He kept his head down and watched the ground as he walked. He continued walking for a few blocks, hearing the sound of cars driving past him every now and then.

After a half hour of walking, Sherlock accidentally bumped into someone. Sherlock muttered an apology and kept walking until the person he bumped into called out to him.

"Sherlock Holmes, not going to say hello to an old friend?" The voice sounded familiar. Too familiar. Sherlock slowly turned around the face them. He got a good look at her face.

_The Woman._


	5. Chapter 5: The Woman

**Chapter 5**

**_The Woman_**

All Sherlock could do, all Sherlock really wanted to do, was stare at her. He didn't respond to her question, he sort of refused to. He looked around, baffled.

"Well? Are you going to say something?" Irene Adler said impatiently, her dark red lips moving on their own. Sherlock, again, refused to respond in any way. "If you're not going to speak to me then I'll be on my way, it was nice seeing you too, Mr. Holmes." With that, she turned on her heels and walked off. Except, Sherlock went after her, grabbing her elbow slightly and turning her around to face him. They were close, a bit too close for Sherlock's liking. She smirked up at him.

"That's what I thought." She said, a teasing sound in her voice.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked in a bitter tone.

"Well excuse me for wanting to go on a morning walk. What about yourself?" She put her hand on his cheek. "You look dreadful. What's wrong Sherlock? Missing a friend?" She smirked again.

Obviously Sherlock became enraged at her comment, as he did with almost anyone's comment about John. _Don't be rude now, Sherlock. _Sherlock heard John's voice ringing in his head. He tried to shake the sound from his head, but he longed to hear John's voice. _Talk to her, get a cup of tea. _John's voice had said. Sherlock turned himself from his thoughts and looked at Irene questionably.

"Tea?" He said after a moment's pause.

"What?"

"Would you like to get some tea?" He repeated the question, explaining more in depth.

"Why yes, that sounds lovely." Irene smiled and wrapped her arm with his, almost dragging him down the sidewalk to the nearest shop.

Once they had seated themselves in the far corner of the little shop, sipping their tea, Irene finally decided to break the silence.

"In all seriousness, Sherlock, how are you dear? I heard what happened to John and it's… a shame." Her voice sounded so monotoned, so uncaring.

"I'm fine."

"Oh, no, you're not. I can see the pain in your eyes. I can feel your pain, it vibrates off of you so greatly. We all know, Sherlock. We know how much pain you're in. Let me ask you, have you tried suicide yet?" The question was almost like a slap to the face. Sherlock gazed at her in disbelief that she had actually asked him such a thing.

"No." He lied. Of course he had attempted, it was all he ever wanted to do.

"Why didn't you just go with it?" What sort of questions were these? Who asks someone this?

"Because I knew I had to keep living."

"For what reason? Your reason for living, Sherlock, is long gone my dear. You're better off as dead as John." Irene smirked, it was a disgusting sight.

Sherlock refused to answer her, or even look at her. Yes, he thought of suicide on an unhealthy basis, but he had hope. Hope that John was still alive, still somehow out there in the world, hiding. Sherlock started to become lost in his thoughts, thinking about if John was alive right now, what would he be doing? Would he be watching Sherlock? Making sure he didn't off himself? Or was he actually dead?

"Well, if you're going to ignore me for asking such simple questions, I guess I should leave you to your pondering." She went to get up, but before she could, Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her close to him.

"Simple questions?" He said, baring his teeth, speaking in a low and frustrated tone. "Asking me if I had attempted suicide is a simple question to you? Of course I had tried! Of course I think about it every day and wonder why I haven't yet. I haven't because I hope that John is still alive and everything was just a lie."

"Oh Sherlock, you're broken. You're unfixable and you're better off dead." Irene laughed menacingly at her words, pulling her arm out of Sherlock's grip and getting up. "I'll see you on the other side." She stalked off and out to the street, leaving Sherlock at their table, almost in tears.


	6. Chapter 6: Death

**I've become motivated. I'm back. Apologies for the break.**

**Chapter Six**

**_Death_**

2 months after John's death

Sherlock hadn't eaten for a few days, with the exception of having tea or coffee once in a while. He was gradually losing weight at an unhealthy rate. He was becoming more and more secluded, ignoring calls and text messages. He even changed the locks into the apartment, constantly having the doors locked. Every so often Mrs. Hudson would come up, banging on the door, begging for Sherlock to come out. Every time he would ignore it. He slept on the couch, only occupying the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. He never once dared to look at their bedroom door. He hadn't seen a hallucination of John in weeks, he was no where to be found in his mind. John hadn't spoken to him, it was all empty.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, sipping on a warm cup of tea. He was staring at the fire place. He glanced up at the mirror that hung about it, it had been shattered weeks ago. When Sherlock went on an emotional rage, he punched the mirror over and over, slicing his knuckles with the broken glass. You can still see the blood stains. The blood obviously was dried, but it hadn't changed its color yet. Sherlock slowly raised himself off the couch and shuffled over to the mirror. He started picking at the shards of glass, successfully peeling off a decent size piece. He studied the piece, watching it shimmer in the dim light from the lamps. Sherlock gripped the glass tightly, cutting into his palm and fingers.

He slowly walked back to their bedroom, sadness and rage bubbling inside of him. He placed his hand on the door knob and turned it, slowly pushing it open. The room smelled old, dusty, and avoided. Memories of John flushed into Sherlock's mind, everywhere he looked he saw flashbacks of John getting ready every morning. Flashbacks of their arguments, their happiness, their loneliness.

He sat on the bed and opened his palm, revealing the shard of glass that had cut his hand. Blood was dripping on the floor, but Sherlock didn't feel the pain. Sherlock had thought about this, over and over and over again. Dying. He was never so overwhelmed with human emotions before. He never cared to take the time and understand, it was too important for him to learn deductions. Although, when John came into his life, all of that changed.

The first time Sherlock had actually touched John was while at the pool, when Moriarty had planted the bomb vest on John. It took everything Sherlock had to not rip the vest off of John when he first saw it. That night Moriarty allowed them to go home, Sherlock became more attached to John. Always keeping an eye on him. Always staying close. That's when Sherlock started to notice these feelings. He researched his problem, thinking he was ill. He assumed he was running a fever, getting the flu. That wasn't it though, he had come to realize he had loved John.

Light glimmering from the glass took Sherlock from his thoughts and back into reality. He looked at the glass, telling himself that it was time. He couldn't handle the overload of emotions that he didn't understand. His shaking hands raised the glass to his neck. It would hurt. It would make a mess. It would be devastating for Mrs. Hudson to find him like this.

_Don't. _It was John's voice. _Please, Sherlock, don't do this. _Tears started forming at the corner of Sherlock's. His hand shook worse, the sharpness of the glass slightly cutting into his neck. _I love you, remember that. _Dropping the glass, Sherlock puts his hands to his face. He let out loud sobs, tears streaming down his face and in-between his fingers. The blood from his cut hand was smearing the right side of his face.

"I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry." He choked through sobs. "I can't do this. I can't."


	7. Chapter 7: The Note

**AN: Oh did you think this was over? No, no my dears. It's no where close.**

**Chapter 7**

_**The Note**_

1 year after John's death

It's remarkable, how the human body reacts towards certain situations. It had taken Sherlock almost 8 months to recover from John's death. It wasn't easy. 10 suicide attempts, 6 therapists, 26 Emergency Room visits. Now, tomorrow marks one year of John's death and Sherlock no longer felt depression, he no longer felt anxiety or the loneliness. He had solved numerous cases for Lestrade in the past two months and was finally able to sleep in their room. Of course, all of John's belongings had been removed from the apartment during the year. Mycroft called it 'letting go' or something like that. Mycroft helped Sherlock remodel the apartment, somewhat, they had a lot of arguments. Sherlock refused to move anything around and Mycroft had insulted him many times, calling him a 'baby' as well.

But now, though, Sherlock was sitting on the couch in his robe, reading the paper and sipping coffee. Glancing the paper for an interesting case. Working on cases returned to how things used to be, before John that is. Sherlock never spoke to anyone, only to inform Lestrade on his deductions. No one was ever in awe anymore. No one complimented him. They went back to their usual selves with the constant insults and badgering. Most of Sherlock's days were boring, he returned to conducting experiments, recently they contained a lot of severed heads.

Although something was different about today. Sherlock placed the paper on the coffee table and stood up, coffee still in hand. He stepped onto and off the coffee table, heading towards the kitchen. Looking around, it all seemed ordinary. Normal. Boring. Then he heard something coming from his bedroom. Walking down the hall, reaching the door, he pushed it open since it hadn't been closed.

There he was.

John Hamish Watson.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Facing the windows.

Completely oblivious to Sherlock's entrance.

Sherlock dropped his cup of coffee, landing with a loud crash, pouring hot coffee all over Sherlock's toes. The figure didn't move. It didn't budge. It stayed completely still.

The last hallucination Sherlock had seen of John was 7 months ago, when he first started seeing a therapist. Every time he said John's name to the therapist, it was like John had listened to him, and appeared right beside him. That was 7 months ago though, ever since then, the therapist helped him remove John's image from his mind. He actually didn't remember what he looked like.

Seeing him now brought the memories back. It brought everything back. Panic started to rush through Sherlock, he slowly walked towards the figure, reaching his hand out to touch his shoulder. Once his hand was close enough, John turned his head to face Sherlock. He smiled.

Then vanished.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, he began going into shock. He had forgotten all about John, like the therapists and Mycroft told him to do, forced him to do. And now he's back, somehow, in his mind.

_I'm real, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you. Why did you try to forget about me?_ The oh-so familiar sound of John's voice rang in Sherlock's mind. Making him angry. He was enraged, how could this have happened? After the recovery he had made! He was happy, content, finally! Why would this happen now?

"Stop it. No. Stop it! You're dead! I know you are! I've forgotten about you! You're not real!" Sherlock's baritone voice echoed through the flat.

_"Oh I'm plenty real, Sherlock." _John's voice rang again. This time, Sherlock glanced at the window and there he was. Perfectly visible.

"No you're not!" Sherlock lashed out, throwing his fists at the hallucination, punching the window. It shattered.

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" She opened the door to the flat and walked back to where Sherlock was standing. "Oh! Sherlock! What have you done? What's wrong dear-y?"

Sherlock had fallen to his knees, head against the non-broken part of the window, crying. Angry crying. He lashed out again, punching the wall and floor. His knuckles were becoming bloody and numb.

"He won't go away." Sherlock muffled through his tears.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked, slowly walking towards him.

"I said he won't go away!" He screamed in her face, causing Mrs. Hudson to yelp and head towards the door. She was always scared to be around him when he was angry. "He won't get out of my head."

"Because you love him, Sherlock. You'll always think about him." Mrs. Hudson said quietly, leaving for the stairs.

_I read your note, Sherlock. The one with the engagement ring? It was beautiful._ That caused more tears to stream down Sherlock's face. He had written the note over a year ago. Sherlock meant to propose to John, just days before he died. He never worked up the courage though.

Wiping the tears from him face and taking a few deep breaths, Sherlock walked out of the room and into the bathroom. Cleaning himself up a bit and dressing into his usual outfit, he headed to the street. He was on a mission.

When John's body was buried, he purposely placed the engagement ring in a place where it would forever stay. He also had the note attached to the ring, hiding that as well. Sherlock never visited John's grave since the burial, he meant to, but it hurt too much. Calling for a taxi, because the walk there was too long and Sherlock didn't have that much motivation, he hopped into one that stopped for him.

* * *

When Sherlock finally arrived at the cemetery, he was slow on getting out of the taxi. He didn't want to. After the taxi driver basically forced him out, he paid and walked up the eerily regular path to John's grave. He stood before it, staring at it. Nothing changed, it said the same thing that it had the first time Sherlock saw it. He knelt down and started looking for the ring. Did someone take it? Sherlock remembered exactly where he placed the ring, but upon searching that area, there was nothing to be found.

If someone had stolen it, hopefully they enjoyed the 2,000 pounds it was worth. The note was what Sherlock was really searching for though. That was more important. He sighed, sitting down beside John's gravestone, leaning on it.

"I miss you." Sherlock whispered. "I should have brought flowers. You hated flowers." He chuckled to himself.

* * *

_**Flashback**_

Sherlock found out that John hated flowers whenever Sherlock decided to take John on a surprise date. He attached a small note to 3 roses, the note read "meet me in our bedroom. -Sherlock". Sherlock had set up a whole dinner in their room. He cooked a 3 course meal, sort of. He had bought pre-made salads and burned the already sliced turkey 2 times. He even made brownies that were half burnt. It was worth the effort. Sherlock even placed rose petals leading into their bedroom, that he found out was very romantic, as said the internet. He was waiting for John on the bed, with their plates placed neatly on bed trays. Once John walked in, he had started asking Sherlock tons of questions.

"Sherlock, what is this about?" John asked, irritation in his tone.

"I wanted to have a little date."

"So you decided to through rose petals everywhere?"

"Well, the insider I had said that it was a very romantic idea." Sherlock stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Is your insider the internet? Sherlock, I hate flowers. They're dull and they die. Oh goodness, I'm starting to sound more like you now." John smiled. Every time John smiled it brought this warm, tingly, unknown feeling to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock chuckled in response.

"Come here, give me a kiss, and enjoy this professional 3 course meal." Sherlock smiled. John walked over to Sherlock, kissing him on the lips briefly before sitting down in his designated spot on the bed.

"Professional? Did Mrs. Hudson help you?" John question, sarcasm in his tone.

"No, I did this all on my own. For you." Sherlock was never good at noticing the sarcasm in John's tone, he always assumed he was being serious.

"Well, it's a wonderful gesture." John said, taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "And I love it. Next time though, don't use flowers." He kissed Sherlock's fingers and they started eating.

* * *

**_Current Time_**

Sherlock snapped out of the flashback when he heard the crack of thunder from the sky. Glancing up, it was increasingly darker than when Sherlock first arrived. He wanted to find the note. He started digging into the ground where he first placed it, hoping it was still there.

He finally felt something round, pulling it from the dirt, it was the ring. Smiling, he rigged around some more and successfully found the note, covered in dirt and grass stains. Opening it up so that it wouldn't tear, Sherlock's perfect handwriting was still eligible. He cleared his throat.

"Dear John Hamish Watson, I've written this over 20 times I think. I've lost count. I gave up counting actually." Sherlock chuckled at his own words. "I'm writing this because I love you. I never tell you, nor have I ever used those words towards you. I've thought them though, oh have I thought them. Many times. I don't know if you know how greatly you've changed my life, changed me. I've never met someone like you. Someone who could do that to me. It's amazing. I love every minute with you. The first time I saw you, to the first time I touched you, to the first time we kissed. I love it. That's why I'm writing this letter, because I'm horrible at expressing myself in person. So hiding behind the letter was the best idea I had. I want to spend my life with you, John. I want to spend every waking and sleeping moment I have, with you." Sherlock wiped his eyes, the tears started forming and his vision was becoming blurry. "Because I love you, John Hamish Watson. So, answer this one simple question for me, please. Will you, John Watson, take my hand in marriage, to spend the rest of your life with me?" Sherlock's tears dripped onto the paper, blotching words, the ink started to become runny. Sherlock folded up the note, packing the note and the ring back into the hole.


	8. Chapter 8: Silence

**AN: If you're stuck on how many months have passed, only 3 months have passed. It's currently 15 months after John has passed away. Just a little hint, the next 3 chapters will all be 3 months apart. Chapter 11 (if my math is correct hahah) will be a full 2 years.**

**Chapter 8**

**_Silence_**

Sherlock slowly started going back into his quiet old self, when John's death was recent. He let the memories flood into his mind, he allowed the hallucinations to happen, he talked to John every time he heard his voice. He didn't talk to the living, though. He avoided Lestrade's petty calls for help. He avoided Mrs. Hudson banging on the door. He enjoyed living with this ghostly remain of John.

Sitting on the couch, sipping a nice warm cup of tea, Sherlock heard the faint sound of his cell phone buzzing. Setting the cup down, he got up and walked to grab his phone.

_Lunch?_

_Mycroft_

The last time Sherlock talked to his brother was almost 2 months ago. Now he wanted to have lunch with him?

_Where?_

_SH_

Sherlock didn't know what other way to respond. He truly had ignored everyone for months..

_Surprise. Come outside._

_Mycroft_

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, gracefully putting them on and walked down the stairs. Stepping outside into the fresh, crisp London air, Sherlock realized that the last time he was outside was when he visited John's grave, 3 months ago.. His pale complexion even more obvious. He saw the familiar, expensive black car drive up and pull over to the curb. The door opened, allowing Sherlock to step inside. He was greeted by Mycroft, who had a grim look on his face.

"Hello Sherlock. How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked, in his normal tone of voice.

"I'm feeling fine, thank you." Sherlock answered, gazing out the window.

"I see you've been quiet lately.. Lestride has told me that he's tried phoning you."

"What a shame." Sherlock sighed. "All of his cases are boring."

_That's not what you told me, Sherlock. _Of all times for John to speak to Sherlock, in front of his brother wasn't the best. Sherlock was trying to come off as okay, just so Mycroft wouldn't force more therapy on him. Sherlock tried his best to ignore the voice, but it didn't shut up. _You said you didn't want to solve cases because they made you forget about me. Tell Mycroft the truth, Sherlock. Tell him._

"Shut up." Sherlock mutter to himself, as quietly as he could.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked, arching one eyebrow.

"Nothing, sorry, how is running London or whatever you're doing right now?"

"It's going wonderful. Not a single issue has risen. Except your mental state, of course."

"What?"

"It's obvious, Sherlock. Your hands are shaking. You're clenching them to ignore the shaking, or something else. Muttering to yourself again? Refusing to come outside? Randomly ignoring calls? And you were doing so well. Would you like me to arrange for another therapist?" Mycroft asked in a serious tone. Sherlock always knew that Mycroft cared for his little brother, but he despised it.

"No, I'm okay. I told you, Lestrade's cases have all been boring."

_Stop lying to your brother, Sherlock. He can see right through you. _There was John's damned voice again.

"You're lying to me. Is something else wrong? Are you hearing John again? Seeing him? Sherlock, I told you that he's not really there. You have to realize that, again. He's dead."

"No. He's still alive. I promise you."

Mycroft sighed.

"I can prove it to you, too." Sherlock said, eagerness in his voice. "Give me 9 months and I'll have the proof for you."

"What are you going to prove to me, Sherlock? John fell from that building. John was announced dead. He is currently buried 6 feet under, in a casket."

"How do you know? It wasn't open casket. Anyone could have been in there." Sherlock's eagerness was overpowered with determination to prove his older brother wrong. "9 months. You'll have your proof."

The car suddenly stopped and the doors opened on both sides, telling Sherlock and Mycroft that they had arrived at their destination. Mycroft stopped his little brother before he was able to get out to the car. Sherlock could see the concern that Mycroft had in his eyes.

"I care about you, Sherlock. I want you to be okay. I know what John meant to you, I understand that it hurts to live every day without him, but you have to move on. Please. For the sake of every one that cares about you. This isn't how we want you to live the rest of your life." It was the first human moment Sherlock had ever experienced with his brother. Their whole life they were uncaring, constantly arguing with each other, the constant feud. But this was different. This felt real.

"Okay." Sherlock sighed and exited the car.

He walked into the restaurant with his brother, the hostess sat them at a table in the far back. They were sitting in silence, the whole time Sherlock wondered if he should go back to forgetting John or continue with what he had now. Sherlock remembered the time he had forgotten about John. He was happy again. He didn't have to worry about the memories flooding back into his mind, he didn't have to worry about the pain. It just wasn't there anymore.

Once Mycroft and Sherlock had finished their meals, they were back in the car, returning Sherlock to his flat. They never spoke to each other after that. They didn't look at it each. Sherlock was staring out the window, watching the buildings go by. Repeatedly, Sherlock thought about what his brother said to him. Maybe it was time to officially forget out John. Maybe it was time to never remember his sweet voice and calming eyes. His loving touch and tender kisses.

_Don't, please. For me._

Sherlock shut the voice out of his head, ignoring every begging yell it had. It was time to accept the silence.


	9. Chapter 9: New Roomies

**AN: Reviewing always helps me, I become very unmotivated to write chapters which is normally why these are posted at 1am my time. I do have ideas for the story and this was my favorite one, hope you enjoy. :)**

**Also! I post this story on Wattpad (if you don't know what that is, ignore this). If you enjoy Wattpad more than , please follow me and my story on there for updates. (My username is still: MrsHeftyTurtle)**

**Chapter 9**

**_New Roomies_**

Lestrade had called Sherlock, informing him that there was an urgent issue he had to attend. A police vehicle had even showed up to chauffeur Sherlock to the crime scene. Lestrade never gave much detail over the phone, but this time he had been more quiet. Three months ago when Mycroft had talked his younger brother into some form of sense, Sherlock had continued working on cases with Lestrade. He even found himself a new room mate.

—

Arriving at the scene, Sherlock hopped out of the car and found Lestrade impatiently waiting. His arms were crossed, he was tapping his left foot, biting on the bottom of his lip, he had started smoking again. The stress was obvious to read off of Lestrade, but Sherlock didn't bring it up as he approached him.

"What have your annoying officers found?" Sherlock asked, monotone.

"A man, late 20's or early 30's hard to tell, fell off of a building late last night."

"Fell?" Sherlock glanced at the body, this seemed oddly familiar. "Don't you mean pushed?"

"You've been here for 20 seconds and you already have an assumption?"

Sherlock had many ideas as to what happened to this man just by looking at him. He knelt down next to the body and pulled out his magnifying glass. This man had been in a fight before he fell, his shirt was crumbled at some edges, Sherlock noticed the bruises that had formed on his jaw. He took a close look at the hands, the knuckles were swollen, but no blood. He didn't fall, he was shoved.

"So?" Lestrade asked. Each time he assumed Sherlock would be done quicker.

"This man was in a fight before he died. He was shoved off the building. He didn't fall off of this building, no, not at all." Sherlock slowly glanced around and noticed the highest building in the area. St. Bart's hospital. "He fell from here."

"How do you know?" Lestrade's voice sounded unpleasant and uncomfortable.

"The blow to his head and arms. His arm is broken and he has a fractured skull. Simply falling from these other buildings would cause no damage, he died on impact. The only problem is who pushed him and why.."

"Sherlock, I think we can handle the rest of the case." Lestrade announced, trying to make himself sound powerful.

"And let your men take months to solve this? No, I can easily help you out. Give me a few days and this will all be over with." Sherlock said, oblivious to the obvious.

"Sherlock, I would appreciate it if you let my men take care of this."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, clearly confused.

"Because we think we know who did this."

Sherlock took a closer look at whose body was laying in front of him. It didn't click at the time he arrived or as he examined. He assumed it was just a stranger, no one of importance. The body belonged to Jim Moriarty. Moriarty was whom had attempted to kill John, whom Sherlock believes let John fall to his death. Sherlock became enraged as the realization hit him. He stood frozen, staring at the body, thinking of all the things he would have rather seen this day. It was ironic, Moriarty falling to his death. The same way John did. Sherlock started feeling that similar pain, it was returning. He had been doing so well. Better than last time. He clenched his jaw, tightening his fists, ready to strike.

"We're going to handle the rest of this case, alright? Go home." Lestrade said as nicely as he could.

"No. I'm going to help you and you're not going to deny my help."

"You're not paid to be here, Sherlock. I can arrest you for this."

"Arrest me? For what? Helping your idiotic men? You need my help and I don't care whose body is laying here. You're going to accept it." Sherlock figured to himself that helping out on this case would bring him steps closer to proving to Mycroft that John still existed. He researched that as a side hobby, trying to find evidence of the proof. This was as close as he was going to get. Hopefully his new room mate enjoyed messy houses.

—

Sherlock returned to the flat, arms full with confidential files. Sherlock's new room mate, Alex, wasn't a very quiet kind of girl. She was loud and somewhat obnoxious, but she helped paid rent and helped keep Sherlock in check. She knew what had happened to him and knew everything that he had gone through. She wanted to help him and sometimes came off as flirty, though Sherlock always rejected those moments.

He walked into the flat and placed the files onto the table in the living room. The air smelled of a fruity perfume and girly shampoo. Alex must have finally woken up and showered. As if on cue, she walked out of the bathroom, wet hair in a towel, but fully clothed.

"Oh, didn't know you went out. Where were you?" She asked, her voice was simple and so pure.

"Lestrade called, a case had come up. I stopped in his office and stole files, he'll never notice their absence." Sherlock responded, focusing on the files and sorting through them.

"Oooo, what kind of case?" Alex always questioned him when Sherlock returned home. She plopped down in her chair, it's exactly where John's used to be. "Oh did you see I bought groceries? Please don't throw them out for your silly experiments this time."

"Hmm." He dully responded, taking a seat and reading Moriarty's and John's files.

Alex was a nice girl, 28 years old and teaching History to secondary students. It was the summer off though, so her company sometimes had Sherlock annoyed, he enjoyed when she was out all day. She'd never heard of Sherlock Holmes until accidentally bumping into him at a coffee shop one day. Her first impression of him was, well, strange. He came off as awkward, but noticed that he held a higher standard for himself than others. She ended up seeing him every morning at the same coffee shop, deciding to finally sit down and have a little chat.

—Flashback—

"What's your name, stranger?" Alex had said the first words, as always.

"Sherlock Holmes." He responded, she was surprised at how rich and baritone his voice was.

"I'm Alexandria Park, preferably Alex though. So, er, Sherlock, what brings you here every morning?"

"I used to visit with a friend every now and then when he wasn't working in the morning."

"Ohh, well where is your friend now?"

Alex continued asking question after question, wanting to know more about this mysterious man. She soon learned that he was a consulting detective, whatever that was. She also learned that he was very highly educated, being able to tell her everything about herself, things she's never told anyone. At first it was shocking, then it became amazing. She continued to compliment him, telling him that what he was capable of doing was a wonderful gift, and that she was proud of him for using it in a good way. When he smiled, though, Alex almost melted. His smile was gorgeous. She could tell he didn't smile often, but oh when he did, it was the best thing she'd ever seen.

They ended up meeting with each other every morning after that. Alex explained she was looking to move out of her current apartment, it had started having water problems and she was not going to live with that. That's when he offered for her to move in with him. At first she was astounded that he would ask such a thing, then he explained more on how he could use the help on paying rent and she was hooked. Two weeks later, she had officially moved into 221B Baker Street.


	10. Chapter 10: Solutions

**AN: Oh no what have I done? I hope you guys still love me after this.**

**Chapter 10**

**_Solutions_**

Sherlock stopped answering Alex's questions, causing her to fall silent. Sherlock was lost in his thoughts, oblivious to the real world around him. He lost track of time until Alex lightly tapped his shoulder, placing tea and a biscuit beside him, avoiding to place it on any papers. He didn't notice the smile she gave him, he never did. Muttering a small thank you, he took a bite out of the biscuit and placed it back onto the plate.

"Sherlock, it's 11 o'clock at night. You've been reading these files for hours. Go to your room, go to bed." Alex pleaded, she always did. Concerned for his health and well-being. Sometimes he would spend days sitting there, going through file after file. "What exactly are you looking for?"

He didn't answer her, he just waved her off with his hand and continued filing and sorting. Everything was starting to make sense. He had printed tons of photos from surveillance videos that were located around the world. He was tracking down John Watson, proving that he was alive, proving that he was here in London again.

"John's dead, Sherlock." The sudden determination in her voice shocked Sherlock, she's never sad something like that. She's actually the motivation that continued Sherlock onto his journey. It caused him to stop moving entirely, unsure of how to respond. Alex sighed. "I want you to stop this, please." She placed her hand on top of his. He still refused to move. "You're not, you're not getting anywhere. I've spoken with Mycroft, every lead you give has become false. You were given John's autopsy papers, you've seen his death certificate. You're killing yourself over this, Sherlock. I was told how you were the first few months. Unable to eat, sleep, or do much of anything. I don't want that to happen again. I won't let it happen."

"Shut up." He muttered.

"What?"

"I said shut up!" Yelling, pushing her back. "You don't know anything about what had happened! You weren't there! You can't hear his voice or see him!" As he spoke, his voice became louder. He threw the tea and biscuit off of the table, he would have rather hit those than her. "Leave me to my work."

"No." Before Sherlock realized what she was doing, Alex had picked up all the papers, ripping them and tossed them into the fire place. Sherlock stood motionless, watching her light the fire, watching all of his evidence go up in flames. Alex stood there for a few minutes, waiting for Sherlock to do something, anything.

_I can't believe you would trust a woman to live in our house, Sherlock. _It had been so long since he heard John's voice. That broke Sherlock. He broke down, slowly. He started shaking, his knees became weak, he started sweating, he put his hand on the table to hold him up but his arm gave out. He toppled onto the ground, the shock was too much for him to handle. He could barely hear Alex yelling his name, apologizing.

She never understood.

—

For the rest of the night and into early morning, the flat was silent. Sherlock was laying on his bed, the shock of earlier passed hours ago. After Sherlock had managed to move himself to his bedroom, he slammed his door and collapsed onto his bed. He had so much time to think about what she was saying. He had so much time to think about the now burnt evidence. He felt like he was so close to locking onto John's location, putting all of the pieces together before Alex had burned everything. This wasn't all apart of Sherlock's imagination, no no, this was all real. John was still alive. Sherlock had the proof, literally had it right in front of him, until Alex decided to add her own input. If only Sherlock made copies of everything..

He did though, in a sense. In his mind palace. His brother would never believe that though, oh God no. He would make a joke of him. It took Sherlock months to get the little evidence that led up to finding Moriarty's body today. He became resentful towards Alex, although he really didn't want to argue with her. He didn't like to, he actually enjoying her company. He enjoyed trying to keep her happy.

There was a faint knock on the door.

"Sherlock? May I come in?" Alex's soothing voice whispered through the crack between the door and the frame.

"Mmm." He muttered, not wanting to use a lot of energy.

She slowly pushed the door open and sat at the edge of his bed. She was looking down at her hands, her long blonde hair covering the anxiety on her face. She was fiddling her fingers, scratching at them in a light, but nervous, manner. She moved her hair behind her right ear and looked at Sherlock, really looked at him. For a moment, Sherlock noticed how beautiful she really was.

"I'm sorry, for what I said and what I did."

Sherlock propped himself against the bed frame, not responding.

"I mean it. I know.. I know John was, er, is important to you. I just, I hate this. You know? Watching you suffocate yourself in the idea that he's still out there. I feel like you're wasting your time, I don't want you to be disappointed in the end, really I don't. I want you to stop, stop with the days on end research, stop with the not eating or sleeping for days. Please. You told me that your brother had his first human moment with you, a few months go." She giggled. "It stopped you, from your research? From your obsession? Correct? Well, for me, Sherlock. I want to be able to live with you knowing that you'll be okay." She placed her hand on top of his, Sherlock didn't really know what to do about the gesture.

He became confused, he wanted to stop but his motivation was driving him to continue. It would be pointless to stop now. Alex wrapped her hand in his and squeezed it lightly, just like John used to.

"Get some rest, I'll wake you up if Lestrade has anything worth while." She smiled, still holding his hand. After a few brief seconds, Alex got up and let go of his hand. She walked out of his room and closed the door behind her. Leaving Sherlock on his bed in a confused mental state, feeling as if he did every time John was around.


	11. Chapter 11: Two Years

**AN: I've been staring at a blank page for more than 24 hours. I promise you there will be more.**

**Chapter 11**

**_Two Years_**

Normally Sherlock would be standing at John's grave right now, sitting beside it, talking to him. Today was different though, he didn't want to go. He was scared. Today he promised Mycroft that he would have the evidence that John was still alive, but Alex had demolished that whole idea.

Alex and Sherlock were eating lunch at the table, Sherlock was twirling his noodles around with his fork. They barely spoke to each other, but when they did, it was meaningful. Alex normally asked how he was, if he was going with Lestrade today, but today she was quit for the most part. Sherlock was spending more time with his brother than he had since they were forced to live together as kids. It was relieving, in a way. Mycroft never said John's name, no one did actually. They all avoided speaking about him. Alex said it was something about moving on, but Sherlock couldn't. He had to though.

The sound of his phone beeping took him from his thoughts. Sherlock glanced over at it, he received a text from an unknown number. Curious, he opened it.

_I will be waiting for you, rooftop of St. Bart's hospital. 2 o'clock._

There was no signature after the text, just a simple message. Intrigued, Sherlock picked his phone up to respond. Although while typing the text, his phone shut off, unable to turn back on. He groaned and slammed his phone onto the table, startling Alex.

"What's wrong?"

"My phone." He responded angrily.

"...what about it?" She never knew when not to ask questions. "Who texted you?"

"I don't know."

"Is that bothering you? What did they want?"

"Nothing, Alex. Nothing." Sherlock's frustrated tone shut her up. He didn't feel hungry anymore. Glancing at the clock, he had a hour before he was supposed to arrive at St. Bart's. Maybe he should just show up early.

Sherlock stood up, put his plate beside the sink and went for his coat. Ignoring Alex's questions, he threw on his coat and scarf and bounced speedily down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Calling for a taxi, one gleefully pulled up, allowing Sherlock to hop in.

—

Sherlock was standing at the edge, staring at the ground below. Who ever was supposed to meet him was 20 minutes late. Sherlock couldn't leave though, he was too interested in this. He sat down on the edge, placing his hands together under his chin, and went into his mind palace. He was just looking over a case in his head, one that Lestrade was positive that Sherlock was wrong. He wasn't, he was never wrong, but he was going through all of the memories to be sure. He started tapping his fingers together, smiling from being so positive on the case.

"You know you shouldn't listen to text messages from strangers." That voice. Was it in Sherlock's head? He heard footsteps. "I'm surprised you even showed up.. I was nervous you stopped caring.." The voice sounded like it was just a few feet from him. "Your smile is still as handsome as you." Opening his eyes, he saw him. Standing there. He looked so real.

"How…"

"Shh.. Don't start with the questions." He smiled that familiar smile, making Sherlock's heartbeat rapid. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"No. You're not real. You're in my head, you're fake!" Anger was boiling in side of him, he was shaking. He stood up too fast, losing his balance and fell back. He almost fell over the edge, but a hand gripped onto his wrist tightly and pulled on him. "You're not…"

"Not dead." John pulled Sherlock close and kissed him ever so lightly. Sherlock didn't exactly know what to say, or what to do. Every time he saw John, he could never touch him. If he did, he just vanished into thin air. Like he was nothing. But this time, this time their touch was so real and lovely and it felt so fake at the same time.


End file.
